A Town Called Malice
by notmanos
Summary: (Post season 9, pre season 10.) What did Crowley and Demon Dean get up to? While wandering, Crowley and Dean accidentally stumble upon an old enemy regrouping, and are forced to do the unthinkable: save the world.
1. I've Seen Footage

N.B.: The whole Demon Dean/Crowley thing was a great premise that was never explored. So I'm exploring it.

* * *

 _ **1 – I've Seen Footage**_

Crowley lifted up his glass of whiskey before the bartender's head rolled across the table, leaving a snail trail of blood. "See if I leave a good review on Yelp," he said, before sipping the alcohol. It wasn't that good. But then again, when you were the King of Hell, you got used to the best. And there was no way he was going to find anything close to the best in Bumfuck, Wyoming.

The traitorous demons who backed Abbadon surrounded his table, some actually snarling like rabid dogs, all holding weapons of some stripe, mainly bladed. He wanted to know where some of them got their hands on angel blades. Crowley knew there was a black market in such items, mainly because he ran that market, although he tried to hoard the angel weapons. Much too dangerous to end up in the hands of lowly stunt demons. Someone was undercutting him. Naughty naughty. Crowley raised an eyebrow at the one he assumed to be the leader, a demon named Stan who was currently inhabiting the body of a buxom bar waitress with the name Stephen tattooed on her arm. "Are you trying to get my attention?"

Stan slammed a fist on his table. "Abbadon was the true rightful leader of Hell! You're just a crossroads demon with delusions of grandeur!"

Crowley nodded, as if that was a new observation, and not something he'd heard a hundred times from the mouths of bitter losers just like him. "You know, if you follow your logic, then Hell could be ruled by any old idiot. Do you really think the kingdom is so fragile that any janitor with ambition could rule it?"

Stan leaned forward, sneering. "That's exactly what happened."

Crowley simply took another sip of his mediocre whiskey before putting the glass back on the table. It slid a bit in the blood. "You picked the wrong side, Stan. If you'd thrown yourself on my mercy, perhaps I'd have forgiven you. But no, you just had to be a gigantic bag of dicks, didn't you? No one likes a sore loser."

Stan brandished his stolen angel blade, as if Crowley was supposed to be afraid of it. Everyone human in this place who wasn't possessed was currently dead, but since this was a run down biker bar, that was five or six people, tops. People no one would probably miss. The eight possessed people around him probably wouldn't be missed either. The good thing about slumming in pits like this was even massacres didn't get much notice. "It's your turn to beg, Crowley. Beg for your miserable life."

He raised a single eyebrow. "I don't beg."

"We'll make you."

"Will you now?"

As if on cue, the door swung open, and the demon supposedly guarding the door died with an aborted shout. The demons around the table turned, blades raised, only to watch another of their rear guard die.

"Dean Winchester?" Stan exclaimed, baffled. "You're dead."

Dean sighed, the First Blade held in his right fist. Blood was already dripping off the edge. "Yeah. Been there, done that, got really bored." A demon lunged at him, and barely moving at all, Dean stabbed him straight through the face before taking a single step back, letting the demon's body hit the dusty floor before him. Dean grinned then, showing all his teeth, and his eyes turned black. "Next."

Panic had a smell, especially with demons. It was a bit like spoiled wine, something that had sat too long and was turning to vinegar. Crowley could smell it now, even as a majority of the demons decided their best strategy was simply to attack Dean as one and overwhelm him with numbers. A nice thought, and really the only trick they could use, but Crowley hardly needed to watch this to know exactly how it would end.

Mark of Cain, demon corrupted Dean – or Deanmon, as Crowley liked to think of him (and Dean hated, which simply encouraged him) – actually made Crowley appreciate him more. This conscienceless version moved with economical grace and brutality, making every vicious killing almost a dance. Being raised by a paranoid father and spending all his life as a hunter had made Dean a formidable weapon, even before the Mark took him over. The Mark removed the things holding Dean back, the little emotional safety rails that made him hesitate, occasionally deploy compassion, fear himself. Deanmon was a pure heat seeking missile of destruction, and Crowley could now see how the Winchesters had managed to survive all these years, in spite of a bumbling air of stupidity and co-dependence. John Winchester honed his oldest son into a weapon, but only now could you see the perfect purity of it. Crowley actually had some respect for Dean. He was more than a surprisingly pretty face.

Dean cut through the demons like they were nothing, gnats not even worth the waste of his time. Stan noticed how fast the tide was shifting against him, and did the only thing he probably thought he could do under the circumstances. He got behind Crowley and put the angel blade to his throat. "Stop, or I cut his fucking head off!" Stan shouted, trying to bluster his way through his fear.

But if Crowley could smell the panic, so could Dean. Hell, he was probably more of a bloodhound than Crowley was. Dean had taken to the demonic life with an ease that suggested he was born for much bigger and better things than a lowly human status could provide. Crowley had made a mental note to keep an eye on that, as Dean could easily forget his place and come for the throne one day. The biggest problem with that was he could claim it. Dean was an attack dog that needed to be kept on a short leash, because the minute that broke, Crowley knew he'd be in trouble. The downside of him being that perfect killing machine.

Dean gave Stan a disbelieving eye roll before looking down at Crowley. "Are you really expecting me to do everything?"

"You seem to enjoy it so." Dean needed these little bloodlettings, or the Mark could make him … well, crazy seemed harsh. Stabbity was probably the better word for it, but sadly it didn't exist. Bloodthirsty? But not in a vile vampire way. Crowley simply raised a finger and mentally pushed, and Stan went flying across the room, smashing into the grimy mirror over the bar before collapsing to the floor in a hail of broken glass. "Forgot I was the King of Hell, did you?" Crowley said, standing up and grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. "Did you think it was an honorary title, Stan?"

"Stan?" Dean repeated, snickering. "A demon named Stan?"

"Someone has to have the shitty names," he said, putting on his jacket. Crowley leaned over the bar, doing his best to not touch it, and held out his hand, calling the angel blade to him. Stan, now bleeding from a dozen different cuts, lunged for the blade, but it was already in Crowley's hand. "Where did you get this?"

"Fuck you!"

"No, my dear, fuck you." Crowley snapped his fingers, and the Stan inside the barmaid died in a brief flash of light, and the woman hit the floor. He had no idea if she was alive or dead, and didn't care either. He stowed the angel blade in his pocket. Crowley then looked at Dean, who hadn't yet stowed the First Blade, even though everybody he could kill was already dead. "You took your time. Had fun with that couple, did we?"

Dean shrugged, stowing the blade. "It was different. Still on the fence about it."

This back alley trip was Dean's idea of fun, although the Deanmon's idea of that was even more limited than soul having Dean. Still lots of killing, lots of fucking, not so much of the eating though. But he didn't actually need to do that now. He didn't really need to do anything but kill, but he still liked little human affectations like drinking and karaoke. "First threeway?"

Dean scoffed. "Hardly. Them being married kinda made it weird."

Crowley couldn't see how, but he didn't get human sexual hang ups at all. Then again, when you got to his age, there was little left to surprise or discomfort you in any way. Not only had you seen it and done it all at least three times, you had to make stuff up to keep it fun for you. "You could invite me next time," Crowley complained. Not that he was jealous, it was just this bar was so boring.

Dean grinned at him. "They thought you were too old."

He glared at Dean, mainly because he was enjoying that. Here Dean was his friend, and yet he seemed to revel in every insult lobbed his way.

Which made him a demon. So, yeah, Crowley could see the inherent conflict in this.

They didn't need to drive. Crowley could teleport them anywhere, and had – they spent a way too short a week in Singapore, where Dean had never been before – but this was one of those weird, lingering human traits the Deanmon still had. He liked to drive from time to time. Currently, Dean had a muscle car that Crowley didn't care enough to identify, and Crowley was playing along with it, because what was the harm? Going a hundred miles an hour on more or less empty roads seemed to make him happy, and it wasn't costing them a thing. Even if Dean lost control and crashed, they were demons. A bloody car accident wasn't taking them out. It probably wouldn't even mess up their hair.

Besides, it amused Crowley to think of Dean as his "driver". Of course, if Dean knew that was how he thought of him, he'd probably give up the car. So he didn't tell him.

There were a whole bunch of States that Crowley really didn't see the point of, and Wyoming was one of those states. He actually forgot it was a state until he was in it. It was like a less flat Kansas. It was lots of nothing, followed by stuff that was so fucking depressing you yearned for nothing again. It was ennui anthropomorphized into hills and tumbleweeds and plants, and all sorts of other fussy little things that no one in their right mind could care about. People had ranches around here, so you were occasionally treated to fences and piles of cow shit, and other things that made Crowley think that an apocalypse wouldn't have been the worst idea. And the people! He did a lot of deals out here, but that was only because there wasn't much else to do short of selling your soul.

Crowley was pretty sure he nodded off for a bit, as the landscape was so soporific it was hard not to succumb to it, but the oddest feeling woke him with a start. It was a taste of power so intense he could taste it, like burnt aluminum in the back of his throat. He found Dean had stopped the car, and was looking as confused as Crowley felt. "Are you feeling this?"

Crowley nodded, looking out the windshield. "It's old, dark power. A kind I haven't felt in … centuries." All that was up ahead was a town, rising out of the flat nothingness like a mirage of an even more depressing place. At first, he mistook a large shadow for a mountain, but no, it wasn't that far away.

The dark thing looked like a spire. A rustic spire of blackened wood. A structure made for burning about sixty feet tall. No, not just burning – human sacrifice. Crowley recognized it, although he hadn't seen anything like it since … when? Some time back in Scotland. Ages ago.

"Is it something I can kill?" Dean asked.

Crowley smirked. "It'd be fun to see, wouldn't it?"

And there was a little nagging sense in the back of Crowley's mind that maybe he shouldn't be messing with this. But the possibility of fucking some powerful shit up was just too delicious to pass up.

He was the King of Hell, goddamn it. And everything was going to bow to him, whether it was of this realm or not. Why be the King otherwise?


	2. Don't Tell Us What We're Doing

_**2 – Don't Tell Us What We're Doing, We Don't Want To Know**_

They drove into a town so dead, Crowley thought maybe they'd stumbled upon a hidden ghost town. A surprise for sad, desperate tourists who somehow thought Wyoming was a vacation spot.

In the center of the town square was a strange rig that almost looked like old torture device, a metal X on a stand with some loose chains dangling from the arms. "Kinky," Crowley said. "I think I'm changing my mind about this place."

"Where is everyone?" Dean asked. "Is this a town full of vamps or some shit?"

Crowley scanned the town layout, looking for some clues. Beyond the public torture post, it could have been any shitty place in the middle of nowhere. "You wouldn't think so. They prefer more urban areas." Dean brought the car to a stop, and Crowley got out, seeing if he could pick up any other clues.

There was a scent in the air, buried beneath the dry, dusty air, that nagged at his memory. What was that? It was like a combination of old blood and parchment. A door opened and closed, and a middle aged woman came out of a nearby business. She had short auburn hair, and wore the blue jeans and plaid shirt combo that could have come straight from Dean's wardrobe, although he wore it slightly better. She didn't look familiar, but she had an aura of energy about her that did jog Crowley's memory a bit. Proving he was not mistaken, she asked, "Crowley, is that you?"

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

She smiled, and her eyes slid past him to Dean, as he'd gotten out of the car. She stopped dead. "What is he?"

"What kind of greeting is that?" Dean replied. It was his idea of a joke, as only ensouled Dean gave a shit about that petty nonsense.

Crowley guessed she was picking up the god weapon energy around him. He'd learned to ignore it. "He has the Mark of Cain."

She frowned. "That's unfortunate."

Dean smirked. "I dunno. I like it myself."

She eyed him like a dangerous dog off his leash, and Crowley couldn't blame her. That was the appropriate response, and she had no idea how dangerous Dean was without the bloody thing. "Is there a reason you travel with an attack dog, Crowley?"

Crowley grinned. "I've always had a fondness for hounds. Which you would know if you actually knew me. Who are you?"

"Leave your dog out here. We'll talk in private."

"No. We talk now. Whatever you say to me you can say to him."

Dean snapped at the air in front of him, just like a dog might, and grinned maniacally at the woman, who continued to frown at him in disgust. The amount of enjoyment Dean took in her disdain verged on obscene, and Crowley enjoyed it immensely. Sadistic Dean was fun Dean. "No I cannot. He's a lesser."

It was that term that gave him a hint of what he was dealing with. "You're a god." Now technically Crowley wasn't god level, but being the King of Hell kind of gave you honorary status.

She tilted her chin up, affecting a haughty air. "Of course I am. I'm Aericura."

Crowley nodded, even though the name wasn't at all familiar to him. "Did you lose a bet?"

Now she looked puzzled. "What?"

"To end up here, in this tacky wasteland. Did you lose a bet?"

Dean snickered, and she gave him the evilest look. "I see the years haven't tempered your arrogance any."

Crowley shook his head. "I have no memory of ever having met you before. Was I drunk, or ..?"

Her eyes narrowed, and Crowley just picked up the slightest pulse of energy in them. "The Culloden Battlefield?"

"Oh. That was you?" Crowley actually didn't remember anything about that, but playing along was probably the fastest way to get out of this conversation.

"I was in a male body at the time. Back then, you really didn't have a choice, not if you wanted people listening to you."

Crowley was shocked anyone ever listened to her, no matter the era, but he wasn't sure what her power set was and if she could hurt him, so he kept it to himself. For now. "Is there something I can do for you?"

She jerked her head back towards the building she'd just vacated. "Why don't you come in for a drink? We'll discuss it."

Crowley glanced back at Dean, who was still giving her a wolfish grin. It was literally wolfish. Like the second Crowley left them alone, Dean was going to rip her throat out with his teeth. He wouldn't put it past him either. His sense of humor had taken a particularly savage bent as of late. "We'd be delighted."

She scowled, probably because she only technically invited Crowley, but he wasn't going to leave Dean out of this, "lesser" or not. She didn't even have a dog run out here.

They headed into what might once have been a salon, but was had been repurposed into some bizarre personal residence, which was both austere and tacky at the same time, an almost impossible combination to pull off. It must have been done on purpose, because Crowley couldn't see how anyone could arrive there accidentally.

There was a small table in the center of the room, with armless chairs with stuffed teal cushions on them that almost matched the aqua blue walls. Ghastly. "Cecil, could you bring us some tea?" Aericura called out. There was no answer, but there was a rattling of dishes in the back room, which must have been the kitchen.

Dean raised his head and sniffed. "What's that smell?"

Mainly, Crowley just smelled god energy, dust, and paint. "What's it smell like?"

Dean frowned and thought about it a moment. "Cold."

Crowley rolled his eyes. That was less than helpful. A lot of Dean had changed for the better, but his occasional need to be a complete asshole had not. Apparently that was just ingrained in him at the molecular level. Assholism was a mystic trait, beyond science.

Crowley had a seat in one of the shockingly ugly chairs, as Aericura had already taken one, and Dean remained standing, preferring to lean against the wall behind Crowley, arms crossed over his chest. Paranoia was apparently beyond mysticism.

"I hear you're the King of Hell now. Congratulations. Or should I say I'm sorry."

Crowley cocked his head. "Pardon?"

"That's a little over the head of a crossroads demon like you, yes? It seems like a lot of responsibility. It can't be easy. I've heard rumors that Hell's in disarray."

He bristled at a god, especially a washed up one, criticizing him. "The rumors are false."

She made a sort of humming noise, agreement that still didn't seem like total agreement. "Still, I think we can make a deal."

"I don't do deal with gods. They screw you, and not in a good way."

"What's that smell?" Dean asked again.

Crowley picked up the scent of a stove burner with a bit too much dust on it, and some annoying herbal tea, but … no, wait. They were covering up something else, weren't they?

Aericura gave Dean a withering glance. "Must be odd, having all these senses. You see now how limited and confining humanity is, yes?"

"Still better than being a god no one gives a rat's ass about anymore."

Ooh, ouch. Score one for Dean.

She gave him that pissy look once more, but currently it was barely worth a mention. Dean certainly didn't care about it.

"I'll just put all my cards on the table. A regime change is necessary for both Heaven and Hell, but Heaven is beyond access right now. So we're going to start with Hell, and work our way towards Heaven." A man came in from the back room, and he was a rather large slab of meat, six foot six if he was an inch, and maybe three hundred pounds, mostly muscle, with shoulders the width of an industrial refrigerator. In other words, a Frankenstein's monster of a man, but he was hiding something even worse in his humongous meat suit. Now Crowley understood what Dean meant when he said he smelled cold.

He smelled angel.

Dean came off the wall, pulling out the First Blade, but he'd hardly moved a single step before Frankenstein raised his hand, and blue energy welled in his palm. "I wouldn't, abomination."

"If you don't want your dog fried to a crisp, call him off," Aericura said.

Dean couldn't die. Even an angel would be hard pressed to take him off the board. (An archangel could, if there were even any of those left.) But he'd need time to heal from being blasted by angel energy, especially if he was fully toasted. Even the Mark of Cain had limits. He might need Dean sooner rather than later, so he didn't need him getting his muscular ass deep fried. "Save it, Dean. I want to see where they're going with this."

Dean gave him a disbelieving look, like he knew he was just saying that to spare him some pain, and something hard and dangerous glittered in his eyes, like he was thinking of doing it anyway. Crowley didn't think human Dean was into S&M – he was way too vanilla and super repressed about his bisexual leanings too - but Deanmon seemed give even less of a shit about pain. He almost welcomed the damage. He took no pleasure from it, he just seemed to think it was funny. That savage sense of humor again.

Still, sense triumphed, or maybe he honestly wanted to see where this was going too, because he stepped back, and lowered the blade. He didn't stow it, though.

Crowley turned to Aericura. "This angel works for you now?"

"Cecil is unhappy with how Heaven is being run, and who can blame him?"

"Cecil?" Dean repeated, snickering at his name.

Cecil gave Dean a stink eye that was just this side of lethal.

Crowley was trying to work out the math of this in his head, but he felt like he didn't have all the parts to this puzzle yet. "Wait. Are you nominating yourself to take over Hell?"

Aericura nodded. "I am a goddess of the underworld. It's well within my dominion."

"Why would I give up my throne?"

She smiled. It was sickly, and more than a little patronizing. "Do you really think it was simply chance that you came here? I was aware you were out there with your little pet, and I made sure that you ended up here. You're now within my dominion."

"Excuse me?" Crowley usually didn't open up all his senses, because he could get overwhelmed with minutia and other crap that only annoyed him. But he did now, and the fine network of energy that made up this place, this town, was crystal clear. "You've trapped us in a dimensional bubble?"

"What?" Dean asked. He looked around, but he wouldn't be able to see it.

Crowley was almost impressed that she could be such an obscure god and still have this kind of juice. "You are aware this won't hold me, right?"

She smiled even wider. "That's what the others are for."

Dean stepped up until he was directly behind Crowley. Cecil hadn't moved, but raised his hand like he was prepared to smite Dean at any second. There was way too much hate in his eyes for Cecil to simply despise Dean as a demon. He knew who Dean was specifically, and wasn't a fan. Was it because of his association with Castiel, or how Castiel's love for Dean destroyed the angel? Crowley would have to ask him later. "What others?" Dean demanded.

She gestured towards the door. "Go look for yourselves."

Dean headed for the door, as Crowley stood, still not sure how she thought she could pull this off. He had to give her points for egotism and sheer gall, but that wasn't enough to make him cede his throne to some random underworld god. They were a dime a dozen, and she wasn't even one of the better ones.

"Son of a bitch," Dean cursed, before Crowley could join him.

At first, Crowley couldn't see what Dean was upset about. There were maybe two dozen people out there, standing in the middle of the street like they were waiting for a signal from their god wannabe to line dance or play dead for a biscuit. But the energy auras on them was flat, weird … and distressing familiar. Then one of the Hee Haw rejects in the front of the group reverted to form, his entire head opening up to a cavernous, toothy mouth full of sharp teeth, and he saw what had bothered Dean.

They were all Leviathans.

"Didn't you and your people clear them out?" Dean asked.

Crowley shrugged. "We got most of them." Without a leader, Leviathans were still tough, sure, but they were rather aimless, and one Leviathan was easily taken out. It was the whole grouping thing that made them a problem. But virtuously stupid human Dean, with an assist from his lovelorn guardian angel, took out Dick Roman. There was no Leviathan leader anymore.

Suddenly Crowley got a very bad feeling, and looked back at Aericura, who was now grinning like a madwoman. "You really should have made a deal, Crowley. 'Cause I think you're fucked."

Nobody ever said the leader of the Leviathans had to be a Leviathan. He assumed that, everyone assumed that … but it was a loophole, and as a crossroads demon, he should have recognized that right away.

"What do we do?" Dean asked.

That was a great question. Crowley wished he had an answer for him.


	3. From The Pinnacle To The Pit

_**3 – From The Pinnacle To The Pit**_

Crowley glanced at Dean, and whispered, "Be ready." Dean nodded. He didn't need to add more, as Dean knew the rest was 'to kill everything that moves that isn't me'. They had a short hand now.

Crowley turned back to Aericura, smirking like none of this bothered him. Cecil was still a stone faced, stick up his ass angel. "You aren't stupid enough to actually trust Leviathans, are you? They'll eat you the moment you're of no use to them."

Her smile was smug. "I can handle the biters. They're dumb, but they're really focused on getting their Earth back."

"Their Earth?" Dean repeated, glaring at her. "They got their ass kicked by a deadbeat god and his sad little angels. They lost it when they couldn't hold onto it."

Crowley enjoyed the evil look Cecil gave Dean for that angel comment. He was going to enjoy all the shit they threw at each other, until one of them died. Well, Cecil died. And he bloody well better.

Cecil glanced at Aericura, who was too busy grinning maniacally to pay any attention to him. "I think we should get started."

"I suppose," she said, with a small sigh.

"Get started with what?" Crowley asked. He'd been trying surreptitiously to pull up some of his powers, summon some minions, but he was finding himself blocked. He didn't think it could be the dimensional bubble, but she could have had other powers. The problem was "underworld god" was much too vague a category. That was a power set that could vary between being able to make things decompose to capable of killing half the world in a snit. Who was she? It was bothering him that he didn't know. He didn't think she was stronger than him, but equal was starting to look like a very unappealing possibility. Having the angel here couldn't have helped.

Cecil raised his hand, and energy began to build up in his palm. "The end," he said, before blasting him with pure angel energy.

* * *

Dean supposed he still had some muscle memory left in his body from the old days. When he was human, had a soul, all that bullshit. Because he knew instinctively how to play to dead, and try to orientate himself to his surroundings with all his senses save for sight.

Oh course, having demon sense helped a ton. If he was a plain old human, he'd have the basic set, but as a demon he got to reconstruct the world without seeing it. The angel dickhead had blasted him and Crowley pretty good, and he blacked out for a bit, but not too long. He could still feel some of his skin decrisping, returning to its usual state He barely smelled like burned meat.

Dean had been relocated to that torture rig they saw when they drove into town. He could feel the sun warmed chains binding his wrists and ankles to the sizzling metal. They probably thought that was bonus torture, but he thought it was funny. Did they think torture meant anything to him? He was a demon, for fuck's sake. It was kind of like throwing a pie in the face of a clown.

They'd taken the First Blade. He could feel the separation of it, the absence, but he also knew it was close. A thin strand of energy, felt but not visible, connected him to the blade. If he concentrated hard enough, he should be able to pull it back to him, but for the moment it wouldn't help him out of his predicament. What would?

He found himself running through his options, venturing into the memories of the dear, departed, self-esteemed challenged human Dean and ransacking his memories. It was funny. Everyone assumed Sam was the smart one, but Dean actually had an impressive knowledge base to draw from. He done a lot of shit, and had been left to his own devices to figure things out since he was a kid. He was one of those who learned more from doing than simply sitting at a desk, but it was a huge insecurity point for pathetic human Dean. His brother was better at the book learnin', so clearly Dean was an idiot. That was one of the many things he fucking hated about human Dean. He got in his own way so many goddamn times he should have gotten a restraining order against himself. Or just nutted up and started acting like a fucking grown up, but that was probably a bridge too far for him. Just like jettisoning his little brother for his own fucking good was also beyond him.

Was the base loose? Dean thought it was, where the metal brace of this thing met the wood. It was tiny right now, but he knew how to make it worse. The chains might remain a problem, except human Dean thought they might make a weapon, so maybe it evened out.

But what weapons, short of an angel blade or the First Blade, did any good against an angel? Because that was who was here with him, the motherfucking angel. He imagined Cecil personally wanted to work out some aggression on him. The sheer amount of hate in his eyes when he saw him suggested he knew exactly who Dean Winchester was. No matter that he technically wasn't Dean – kinda, sorta, but not really – Cecil wanted to punch out those feelings. In his vision that wasn't exactly vision, the angel was a painfully bright smear, and a sound that was so high pitched it was almost impossible to hear, like a singing bowl made of the most fragile, mystical crystals that could be found. Angels were annoying, no matter what senses you had.

"You know this is pointless, right?" Dean said, lifting his head. "I don't hurt easily, and no damage sticks. I get you're frustrated, working for some has been god, but … hey, why did you turn your back on your God? Tired of being ignored?"

Cecil glared at him with hazel eyes so pale they were almost colorless. He was holding his blade up in one fist, and in the other hand he held a flask. Dean could guess what was in that flask, and sadly it was not whiskey. "You don't know everything about the Mark," Cecil said.

"Don't I?"

"No. There comes a point when healing the vessel becomes a chore, and the Mark will take the path of least resistance, moving to another person who's making contact. Did you know that?"

Dean shook his head. The chains were solid, well done. Leave it to an angel to be perfect about bondage. "You can't take the Mark. The Leviathans can't take the Mark. Your god can't either. So that does you no good."

Cecil smiled smugly. Hell, he did everything smugly. He probably breathed smugly. "We have a person standing by. Someone we can control."

"Uh huh. And you didn't think about the easier way to do all this, genius?"

Now he frowned. "What easier way?"

"Offer me a cut, asshat. You think I'm loyal to Crowley? I'm just traveling with him for shits and giggles. I'll kill him if you want. Just ask." Dean wasn't lying. He'd be happy to cut off Crowley's head and use it as a chamber pot; he'd considered it before. As soon as Crowley became more tedious than fun, he was dead. Simple as that. He was pretty sure that Crowley, as smart as he thought he was, hadn't figured that out yet. He thought he was totally in the tank for him. What an idiot.

Cecil's flat look continued. "And what makes you think we'd trust you, abomination?"

Dean couldn't help it. He smiled. "Aww. You're gonna break poor Castiel's heart if you hurt his little smoochy human pet."

That made Cecil wince before his face flushed with rage, and Dean found it hard not to chuckle. This was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. "You shut your mouth, foul creature." He splashed him with holy water, right in the face.

It burned like fuck, almost worst than the angel fire, and he just had to ride it out. He bit back a scream before saying, "Human Dean didn't know what a taboo it was between you featherheads. An angel loving a human is a major transgression among your kind. Murdering a score of humans? Perfectly fine. Loving one? Oh no. That's one of the worst sins imaginable. Not quite as bad as thinking for yourself, but close."

"Castiel is a monster," Cecil snapped. "He was fouled by Dean, warped into a creature that works against his own kind. Heaven is the mess it is now because of him."

"Not Metatron?"

Cecil rolled his eyes. "He only got into power because of Castiel. He should have been destroyed the first time he admitted feelings for the human."

Cas admitted feelings for Dean? Ooh, when was this? Dean was too emotionally constipated and repressed to realize his feelings for Cas were probably beyond friendship – although in his more honest moments, he knew they were, it's just Dean preferred denial – but Castiel had never really admitted such a thing to Dean, probably because, as an angel, he really didn't understand feelings much at all. So they were emotionally constipated together; what a perfect pair. "It makes you wonder why your God keeps resurrecting him over and over again, even though he's such a fucked up traitor." Dean couldn't keep from grinning.

"Shut up," Cecil snapped.

This just encouraged him. "I can't believe none of you have figured it out. Not even poor, dumb Cas knows why he's resurrected again and again. But I know. See, your Dad has been testing you, and only Cas has ever passed. You angels aren't just supposed to protect humanity from demons. You're supposed to protect humanity from everything, including you. No matter that Cas saves humanity just to protect one human in particular, he does it. So when he dies, your Daddy brings him back, 'cause he's won. He's right. But nobody has figured that out. None of you featherheads, not Cas, not even that asshole Metatron realized it. A demon had to crack the code. Your Daddy doesn't want you mired in bureaucracy and endless, stupid battles for power and control. He wants you to protect his pets, even if it's from you buttheads."

Cecil threw more holy water on him, and it caught him in the eye. He groaned and tried not to scream as his eye sizzled. "You know nothing of the divine, monster."

Oh, but he did. It was weird how, when you were a demon, you could see the other side so clearly. Angels and demons were mirror images of each other, with some strange common ground, but he knew the featherheads would never see it that way.

He rocked back, seemingly with pain, and felt the teeniest shift beneath him. It was minuscule, and to be honest, Dean knew it might take centuries to move this enough to make a difference. But he would do it. He bit back a smile, because no matter how much Cecil tortured and killed him, he was going to get free. And stab him in his fucking face.

* * *

The burning brought Crowley back to full consciousness.

It was low level, like he was being kept on a low flame, but it was constant. He was not surprised to wake up inside a devil's trap, because, duh. If he could get free and use his powers, it'd be a fair fight. And who wanted that? Not some has-been god, that's for damn sure.

He sat up, and saw he'd been moved to a very small room of unvarnished wood, that smelled faintly of … sea water? Salt? Below him, a heavy duty devil's trap had been drawn in goat's blood. Very old school. Quite powerful. But why the bloody hell was he burning? He couldn't possibly pick up venereal diseases anymore.

"The wood's been soaked in holy water," Aericura said, emerging from a corner. Crowley was sure she hadn't been there a minute ago. "I imagine it's quite uncomfortable for a thing like you."

Dean was not here. On the plus side, neither was that dickhead angel. God on god – now there was a battle he could do. Once he got out of this ruddy trap. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" He was genuinely curious about this. He had no idea what she wanted from him.

She smiled, and he realized she'd change from her regular person clothes to what looked like ceremonial robes of deep crimson. Somewhere in the distance, far outside where they were, he heard a man scream in pain, and belatedly realized it was Dean. That was a mistake. He supposed Cecil would find that out eventually. "You don't remember me at all, do you Crowley? Because if you did, you'd know why you should be trying to bargain your way out of this."

"Guilty. So what is it you intend to do to me?"

"I absorb the power of my lessers. And I do mean absorb."

Crowley considered that, and realized all possible permutations were bad, but some were much worse than others. "Are you going to drink me?"

Now her smile became wide and wolfish, and he saw she had jagged, serrated teeth. That was a very odd god feature. "I'm going to eat you, Crowley, and absorb every bit of power you have."

Oh bloody fucking hell. Leave it to him to bumble into the path of a cannibal god. He should have known that even a demonic Winchester would be nothing but bad luck.


	4. Carnivore

_**4 – Carnivore**_

Crowley considered his options here. Jack and shit. Bollocks.

Then he reconsidered. He couldn't use demon powers, no. Could he use witchcraft? He wasn't great at it, but thanks to his mother and several of her disreputable friends, he'd picked some up over the centuries, and he knew some of the older, weirder gods had weaknesses to magic. It might be too much to hope for. But it was all he had left. "No wonder the Leviathans are fine with you being their leader. You have similar dietary requirements."

She continued leering at him, showing off her terrible teeth. What would her orthodontic bills be if she were human? Unimaginable. He had nothing to use on a spell but goat's blood … and goat's blood was fucking amazing. Blood magic separated the boys from the men, or, to be a bit more correct, the mages from the warlocks. "I understand the Leviathans. They are creatures far better than their surroundings, but they're treated like lessers. Hardly seems fair, does it?"

Crowley flipped through is mental rolodex for blood spells that could help him now. If he was wrong, either in picking the incorrect spell or in its effect on her, he was dead. But he was dead anyway, so sometimes you just had to roll the dice. That was one thing he had liked about the human Dean – he was a big fan of the whole 'what the hell' move. "But they are lesser to you, aren't they?"

"What isn't?"

"But why do you want Hell? And how do you get from there to Heaven?"

She cocked her head curiously. "Is this where I tell you all my evil plans, Mr. Bond? I don't think so. I think I've wasted enough of my time on you, Crowley."

He nodded, rubbing some of the goat's blood between his fingers. It stank of iron, like all blood, but it felt like silk. _"Ablegare!"_ he shouted. He was going to feel like a right wanker if this didn't work, but at least he'd be too dead to be truly embarrassed.

There was a split second where he thought it hadn't worked, and he was totally fucked. But then she was simply gone, and the energy surrounding her departure hadn't been godlike. Fantastic.

Now he had to figure out how to get out of this Devil's Trap, save Dean, kill the Leviathans, and get the fuck out of here before she came back. Because if she wasn't angry before, she was going to be furious now.

* * *

Angel blades burned.

Dean the human had guessed it, considering how demons reacted to it, but now that he was a demon, he could feel it for himself. And there was a world of difference between knowing and feeling. When the blade sliced into his flesh, it was like a knife heated to a temperature it couldn't have possibly reached while still remaining solid. And despite that high heat, the wound didn't automatically cauterize, as it should have. It was like acid and ice, lava and boiling oil. It was everything scalding in one terrible package.

Cecil fancied himself an artist too, or so Dean gathered from the way he took his time with every slice, slashing him in different places, with different lengths and depths. Dean asked if he was making a pattern, like maybe a bunny, and got slashed across the face for what he assumed was his insolence. These cuts not only burned, but they weren't healing like his other cuts. Which made sense, since it was an angel weapon, and he was a big bad demon. This thought also made him laugh, which made Cecil stab him through the shoulder.

That was a new kind of terrible pain, as it felt like the blade was cooking him from the inside out, and his moving it made it worse. Dean hadn't wanted to scream, but couldn't help it. This made Cecil smile, but in a way that suggested he had never really done it before. It looked like a grimace with too much teeth. "I'm wondering, if the Leviathans eat your arm, will it grow back?"

Dean shrugged with his one good shoulder. "Dunno. We should find out." Dean looked at some of the Leviathans, who were standing off to the side watching, like this was a spectator event, and started clicking his tongue like he was calling a dog. "Here boy. Come here. Wanna treat?"

This time Cecil backhanded him across the face, and it was like being smacked with a full cement mixer. He felt a tooth break, and blood flooded his mouth. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you think I won't have them mutilate you?"

Dean spit out the tooth, and some of the blood. There was always more blood. "No, I kinda wanna see what happens." Dean grinned with bloody teeth. "Are you forgetting, asshat? This body is just a vehicle. Do you really think I give a fuck what you do to it?"

A little bit of fear sparked in Cecil's eyes, and he was glad to see it. He should be scared. Did he forget demons really didn't give a shit about their vessels? Ride 'em like you stole them, 'cause you totally did.

There was a strange noise, like a vast board being snapped in half, and that weird black tower thing had part of its roof collapse inward. For some reason, that made Cecil turn towards it, alarm lighting up his otherwise bland face. "Damn it," he muttered, barely audible.

But Dean caught it. "What, a self-exploding tower isn't a feature?"

Cecil gave him a dirty look before disappearing, presumably checking in on whatever happened in the tower. Dean was left alone chained to the X, with the handful of Leviathans looking at him like he was meat hanging in a deli window. And that gave him an idea. "What, waiting for your master to return?" He then barked at them, and laughed. Their eyes narrowed, and he could almost feel their hatred radiating off them in waves. "Afraid to make them angry? You know, Dean killed your Dick. A human, all by himself. Well, he had help from a crazy angel, but those hardly count, do they? So why do you think you're higher on the food chain again?"

"Shut up," the shitkicker looking one said. He was just one overall strap away from being the perfect redneck hick stereotype.

Dean leered at him. "Make me, tadpole."

His porcine eyes narrowed, and he took a step towards the deck the torture rig was on. He was followed by a Stepford wife and a teenager you knew was a monster of some sort, because he didn't have a single zit. "What did you call me?"

"Oh come on, Hopfrog, can't you take one little joke? Just 'cause I beat the guy you couldn't, one shitty little human who made you all look like pointless, underachieving fools."

Now redneck and his friends stepped up on the deck, and made a slow but determined beeline for him. Dean was a captive audience, and this was, of course, the stupidest thing he could do, right? Taunt them. Now redneck was eye to eye with him, and for some reason, smelled like pickles. Weird. "You really think I won't hurt you just 'cause Cecil has plans for you?"

"Yeah, I do. You're all stupid followers. Look up Leviathans in the dictionary, and I bet all there is is a mouth breathing severed head. You gotta be one of the stupidest monsters I've ever encountered, and I've encountered them all."

Redneck's head transformed into that huge tooth filled maw that was the hallmark of all Leviathans, and sunk his many teeth into Dean's stabbed shoulder.

He screamed once more, because fuck, that hurt. He had to pick the wounded shoulder? So unfair. But he'd barely sunk the first rows of teeth in before he disengaged and stepped back, spitting out blood. "Gah, what is wrong with you? You taste terrible."

"Hmm, let's see. I'm a demon, and this body has been living on nothing but booze for the last couple of weeks. You tell me, genius."

Suddenly Crowley appeared in the middle of the street, hand bloody, hair mussed, but otherwise fine. So the Goddess of Shitberg hadn't killed him yet? Was that disappointing or not? He snapped his fingers, earning the shocked attention of all the Leviathans, who didn't notice the snap had made the chains binding Dean's arms and legs disappear.

Mentally he reached out, and felt the First Blade come into his hand, the hilt slapping into his palm like it was made to fit there. Redneck was just turning around when Dean chopped his head off with one smooth movement. The First Blade went through his thick neck like a red hot poker through guts.

When his head hit the deck, Dean kicked it away, and the Stepford wife launched herself at him, as did the teen, one going high and one going low.

He chopped the Stepford wife's head off and sent it flying, while the teen sunk his teeth into his calf. It hurt, but he stabbed him in the skull, carving the top of his head off like a Halloween pumpkin. It was at least disorienting, and he let Dean go as he reeled back, grabbing for the missing top of his skull like his hat had just been blown off.

"Stop playing with your food," Crowley snapped, and since the Leviathans had turned their attention on him, he disappeared before they could take him down.

"Bossy drama queen," Dean snapped at the empty air, kicking the boy off the deck, where he collided with another Leviathan.

He had no idea where Crowley went, or when Cecil would be back, but Dean understood what Crowley expected him to do here. He expected him to single handedly kill all these fucking Leviathans. Did he notice he was still bleeding from a dozen angel blade cuts, or that he was fresh from being tortured? Did he care? Actually, Dean could confidently answer that last one: no, he did not. Not even a little bit.

The other Leviathans, who had drifted away, heard the commotion and had come out, and they were now gathering in an unruly, threatening mob. He could feel their hate like a palpable thing, a wave of scorching heat coming for him like a death ray. He knew if he tried to wade into that, they'd tear him to pieces, especially in his current state.

Dean grinned. He had a feeling, if the human Dean was here right now, he'd be in perfect agreement with him. If you were going to die, you go out fucking big. Take as many of the bastards with you as you possibly could.

With a war cry, Dean jumped into the mosh pit of Leviathans, slashing and stabbing before his feet even hit the ground. He was kind of curious to see how many he could kill before they ripped his arms off.

When the first Leviathan bit into his side and ripped a huge hunk out of him, Dean couldn't help but laugh through the pain.


	5. Lampshades on FIre

_**5 – Lampshades on Fire**_

Crowley knew his time was limited. Aericura would be back any second, and he knew that dick angel was hovering around. He could feel his presence like an annoying taste in the back of his throat. Sort of like old vomit. If this was going to work, it'd rely as much on luck as anything else. There might be no help for that now.

He didn't know if the Deanmon could kill all those Leviathans at once or not. He'd probably kill a shit load of them, but they might overwhelm him eventually. Did Leviathans eat demons? When they were slowly taking over the Earth, they occasionally killed demons, but didn't eat them. He didn't know if it was because they looked down on demons or if demons tasted bad to Leviathans. He never asked the Levis he killed, mainly because he didn't give a flying fuck what they thought about anything. That was a shame, as it might have helped Dean now. Still, water under the bridge. Besides, he wasn't sure being eaten by Leviathans would be enough to kill the Mark of Cain, and it would be kind of fascinating to find out how the Mark would bring the host vessel back. Would he reform in a Leviathan's stomach, and just burst out, like some bizarre variation on an Alien chestburster? Now that he was thinking about it, he kind of wanted to see it. That'd be a hell of a surprise for Dean and the Levis both.

But he had to get ready. He had one play to make, and different things would kill the angel, and maybe Aericura. He needed the Deanmon to take out the Levis and maybe the angel, the sooner the better. If Dean did die temporarily, it would put a crimp in his plans, but it wasn't a fatal hiccup. He could improvise around it if he absolutely had to.

Crowley kept teleporting around the town, keeping moving, trying to gather what he needed and not stay too long in one place. He couldn't get out of the dimensional bubble right this second, but he suspected the angel was more to blame for that than Aericura. It stank of the divine, but not in a moldy, old world god way. Maybe Cecil was giving her loan of some of his powers. It might explain why she was keeping the angel around … but why was Cecil sticking with her? How was she going to help him take over Heaven? Sure, certain underworld gods had some pull in Heaven, but they were few and far between. He doubted she was one of the rare breed. But did Cecil know that? No angel could have trusted a weird old god on faith, could they? No, even a featherhead couldn't possibly be that stupid. Would they?

Oh, yes they could be. Was Cecil dumber than he looked?

Crowley had just teleported into a new empty building when he was blindsided with a hit that felt like someone had just dropped a rather large statue on him. He knew it was the angel simply from the taste of vomit in his mouth, and the smell that Dean had accurately described as cold. In spite of being laid out on the floor and not sure where the annoying asshole was, Crowley lashed out with his powers, and heard more than saw Cecil fly across the room, into and through the nearest wall. "You do not touch me," he roared, getting back up to his feet. His head distantly hurt, but it was washed away as Crowley started filling himself with righteous demon rage. Angel or not, he was still the King of Hell, and no featherheaded grunt was going to beat him. What the fuck was he, the Deanmon?

By the time Crowley walked through the Cecil shaped hole in the wall, feathers was on his feet again, vessel bleeding from the hairline, bloody angel blade clutched in his right hand. "Stay back, demon," Cecil said. His voice was firm, but Crowley thought he smelled fear.

"I'm the King, you stupid bird, and you should address me as such."

"You're not my King."

Point to him, but Crowley was never admitting that in any way. "You realize you're being an idiot, right? Aericura is using you. She can't help you take over and Heaven, and she wouldn't even if she could."

Cecil scoffed. Or maybe he tried. Didn't quite sound right. How long had he been in a vessel? "You really think you can turn me against her?"

"No, I just can't believe you're such an idiot. Did you receive a head injury when you fell from Heaven?"

His weak tea colored eyes narrowed to slits. "Is insults all you have?"

Crowley smiled. Did he really want to do this? The pigeon had no idea what it was asking for. Mentally he pushed, throwing Cecil up against the wall, and pinning the hand with the angel blade. Cecil was struggling, but it wasn't doing him much good. "Do you really want to play, angel? 'Cause I'll play. But I don't think you'll like it very much."

He closed in on the angel, smiling at the possibilities. What would Aericura do if she returned and found her angel plucked bald? It would be fun to find out.

* * *

There was one common ground that the demon and Dean had, and it was this: fighting. Dean was kind of like a wind up toy in that respect. He just kept going until something in him was so badly broken he couldn't function anymore. The thing was, a demon was rarely, if ever, broken.

So even though the Leviathans were ripping big chunks out of him, Dean kept hacking and slashing at any available target, and opened himself up a little room to work, even if he did keep stumbling over lopped off Leviathan arms and slipping in their rank blood. Human blood was mixing in the general slurry, but from what he gathered, the Levis weren't finding him particularly appetizing. Didn't stop them from tearing him up, but at least he wasn't being digested.

Enough blood was running down his arm that the blade was growing slippery in his grip, but the First Blade belonged with him, and he wasn't too concerned about it. If he lost it, he would pick it back up. He would find it or it would find him.

Dean actually wasn't all that surprised he was winning this hopeless battle. The things that held human Dean back – empathy, fear, self-doubt, impulsively bad choices, some deranged need to be a hero, a modicum of self-preservation, being truly aware of pain – simply didn't exist in demon Dean, and he had no compunctions about cutting the head off a Leviathan child, for example, or slicing one until it technically didn't have a face anymore.

When the remaining Levis backed off, he thought maybe they had finally wised up and realized they couldn't beat him, but he smelled something over the burning tires stench of Leviathan blood. It was mossy and ancient, redolent of old power. He glanced behind him, only to see Aericura had manifested a few feet away, looking seriously pissed.

Smiling, Dean turned and flung himself at her, First Blade raised. He knew it was a long shot, but maybe he'd have the element of surprise on her, you know? As it turned out, it was not to be.

In mid-air, he felt power hit him, as solid as concrete, and he went flying in the opposite direction, tumbling ass over elbows, until he crashed to the street, gravity giving the asphalt an extra punch. "You little pest," she said, as Dean spit out a couple more teeth. He'd grow them back, but that always hurt like a son of a bitch. "How could you think you'd ever hurt me?"

"'Cause you're a pathetic old god?"

He felt a blow like an invisible kick to his ribs, and it flipped him on his back. He felt as well as heard a couple of bones snap, and he couldn't help but laugh. "You use a respectful tone when you talk to me, beast."

"I don't even know what that is, lady. See, the guy I'm in? He was kind of a dick before I even came along."

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish? You're a cursed animal. You're nothing but a scourge."

"Which feels like an accomplishment to me." He took a deep breath, and sat up. That took a lot more effort than he expected. The chunks the Levis had ripped out of him were healing, maybe a bit slower than usual, but they still had it over the angel blade cuts, which were still open and burning. Good thing he wasn't human, or the blood loss might be getting to him by now.

"You must be important to your master."

"I don't have a master."

She smiled, and only then did he notice her teeth distended her mouth a bit. So was she the god of the piranhas? That might explain why they'd never heard of her. "Oh, but you do. You're an attack dog, and I think the fact that you're bathed in blood proves that."

He stood, and gestured to the pile of decapitated Leviathans. "And those were your attack dogs. You're just pissed 'cause your dogs didn't win."

"I'm not angry. I'm pleased that the investment I made is going to pay off so well."

She was talking about the Mark being transferred to another person, wasn't she? He grinned at her, and gestured to his arm where the Mark all but glowed, burning with its own fire. "This ain't going anywhere, sister. And you don't have enough big mouths left to push me to the brink of ruin, so I'd say you've spent that coin."

She got this strangely dreamy look in her eyes, which was his first sign that he was in trouble. She crooked her finger at him, as if calling him over, and he felt this weird sensation. It was like all the nerve endings of his body were gathered up and pulled like a leash, and he dropped to his knees. This shouldn't have happened. It especially shouldn't have happened because he felt it in his true self, his demon self. It wasn't just the body reacting to it, which was fucking insane. That shouldn't have been possible. It shouldn't have even been remotely probable. But it felt like she had reached through the vessel, and gathered him in her fist. She'd grabbed a hunk of his spectral self, and she had it in a vice grip. He actually felt pain, not done to the human body. "You may be an affliction, creature, but you're still a dweller of the underworld, which puts you squarely in my dominion. I can make you do whatever I want. Would you like me to show you?"

"I'm good."

She ignored him, of course. He found himself lifting the First Blade, raising it towards his own throat, and while he tried to stop his arm, he couldn't. The knife continued forward until the tip just barely puncture the skin at the base of his throat. He could feel the burn of this blade too, even though it was his own. "I could make you saw your own head off. And while it won't kill you, your vessel's going to take ages to recover from that kind of damage, isn't it?"

He didn't answer, because he didn't need to. The bitch knew the answer as well as he did. She made him stand, even though he wanted to do anything but obey her. He still held the blade to his own throat, and could feel the smallest dribble of blood running down his chest. He wanted to turn the knife on her, cut her arrogant head off her scrawny neck, but he was nothing but a puppet now. Her puppet.

And from the gloating smile, she knew it as well as he did.

* * *

It wasn't that Crowley enjoyed torturing angels … no, of course it was. They were so fun to tear apart. They were both amazingly smug and startlingly clueless at the same time. Breaking them was a joy they never understood.

He wished he had time to go about this properly, with tools and time, but he didn't have that luxury. He had to do something brutal, and in a very short amount of time.

Crowley could hurt the vessel, that was no big deal, but he wanted to hurt the angel within, which was much harder to do. You could do it with an assortment of special weapons, but he had none of those with him at the moment. Cecil had the angel blade. So he had to get it away from him.

One thing many people didn't know was that, as King of Hell, he had the power to cloud men's minds. He hardly ever used it, because frankly he didn't need to. Most people didn't need to be seduced to do bad things; that was a shockingly optimistic and naive view of the human race. Most people wanted to do something bad, and all they were looking for was the right excuse. Why expend the energy when all you had to do was tell them what they wanted to hear? People were gullible, and most wanted to think they were good people, even when they patently weren't. Few people ever thought of themselves as the villain in the story.

Angels were different. Some could be coerced and convinced with choice turns of phrase – dear, oblivious Castiel, who proved good intentions, paved the way to … well, purgatory at least – while others held out until broken. He didn't have the time to find out which one Cecil was, so he pulled out his rusty coercion powers, and threw them at him.

As far as Cecil was concerned, his darling goddess was back, having tossed out mean old Crowley, and was telling him how they had to stop the mean old Deanmon carving his way through the biters. The angel's eyes clouded over, and he was reacting to what his boss was telling him, as Crowley came forward, and eased the angel blade out of his hand. He never seemed to notice.

In its way, that told him a lot about Cecil. Some angels, it took a lot of effort to get them to buy into the illusion. With Cecil, it was the smallest of pushes.

Crowley felt the intrusion, the disturbance of energy in the atmosphere before Aericura appeared, and he stepped behind the angel, holding the blade to his throat. If she needed the angel as much as he thought she did, she'd be reluctant to throw his life away.

But it wasn't Aericura that suddenly appeared, it was Dean, drenched in Leviathan blood. "She's making me do this," he said, before charging at Crowley with the First Blade raised.


	6. Egophillia

_**6 – Egophillia**_

Crowley shoved Cecil into Dean's path, but not before letting the angel blade graze the side of his throat.

Like he thought, Dean dodged Cecil easily, but Cecil collapsed to his hands and knees, blood leaking from the vessel and his grace trailing out in a silvery-white stream. Crowley was no idiot. He might never get a hand on the angel again, so if he was going to hurt him, he had to do it now.

Since he had no desire to kill Dean again, Crowley threw the mind clouding ability straight at him, and it made him stumble and stop. But Dean was a hard case. Maybe because he was a demon under the sway of the Mark, or maybe because even the human Dean was a stubborn dick, but making him buy the illusion was hard. Much harder than Cecil by a damn sight. Crowley supposed he should pat himself on the back for having chosen such a strong willed partner in crime.

Aericura was still pushing him, but since the Deanmon's mind was lost in a fog, his body lurched drunkenly, like a puppet on clumsy strings. His mind was divided, and he was a vessel anyway, so it was too much for him to handle. It was frustrating for Aericura too.

She did exactly what Crowley was hoping she'd do. She lashed out with her powers, but he saw it coming, and threw another spell in response. But since she was expecting it, and he had no goat's blood, it just rolled off her back like nothing.

Cecil collapsed to the floor, hands around his throat, trying to hold in the grace that was slipping through his fingers, not so concerned about the blood. "Aericura," he gasped.

She was torn between controlling Dean, attacking Crowley, and helping the angel. Crowley hoped she'd make the obvious choice, and she did.

Aericura went over to the angel, crouched beside him, and inhaled his grace. Just breathed it in, like sucking water through a straw. Cecil stared up at her, horrified, but what did he expect? She absorbed beings, took their power by consuming them. Why would he be any different?

In that moment, Dean was released from her hold, but was still under Crowley's, which suited him fine. (Although he could feel the little bastard fighting him – Dean muscle memory?) He reached into one of Dean's still open wounds, got enough blood on his hand to count, and cast a huge spell. _"Rumpere!"_

Crowley was aware this was a bit like throwing a couple of M80s into a public toilet: the damage and mayhem would be incredible. But he had shielded himself, and knew he could take it. Dean would survive it, because that wasn't enough to take out the Mark of Cain. He didn't think it would take out Aericura either, but he was hoping it would hurt.

There was a nanosecond before spell activation, when all was quiet and peaceful, and Aericura's eyes were luminescent with angel grace. One thing she hadn't considered when slurping up his essence like a thirsty puppy? Angels were way below the class of god. Power set, ability to take damage, everything. It would seem like a power rush in one sense, but in another very real sense, it would leave her weaker.

And it was at that moment that reality fractured.

The spell was an annoyingly simple one. All it did was destroy. Everything. Within the radius you could push it. Magic required a price, and in this case, this spell pulled energy from the caster. But as the King of Hell, he had lots of energy to spare. If he was a human, it would have killed him to blow up the room. As the King of Hell, it was a barely noticeable head rush.

It wasn't only the walls and the roof that blew out, shattering like the most delicate spun glass, but the energy network surrounding them as well, shredding like rice paper under a hail of bullets. Aericura flinched, reacting to that, before the power slammed into her newly angel fed form. Cecil, rendered essentially human, was all but evaporated, and Dean went flying, while Crowley remained. In fact, when the dust finally settled, he was the only one standing, on the tiny patch of remaining floor, which only existed under his feet. The entire building was no more. The only sign Cecil had ever existed was a bloody smear.

The still living Leviathans who were standing in the street, trying to rejoin other Leviathan head and bodies back together, stared at him in open surprise. Crowley brushed dust off his sleeves, and said, "You did it again, didn't you? You thought you were dealing with a simple demon, a grunt, a shyster who conned and backstabbed his way up the ranks." He turned to face them, and did nothing to conceal his contempt. "I am Crowley. I am the bloody King of Hell, and I deserve that motherfucking throne!" He pulled up a surge of power, and with a raise of his hand, the ground cracked open under their feet, opening up a fissure that swallowed those unable to get out of the way. That was most of them. If they ever underestimated him again, he'd know they were simply being dickheads.

He heard a familiar pained groan, and Dean said, "What the fucking hell happened?"

"You got a little blown up."

Rubble shifted, and he finally cleared enough off to sit up. Blood was making some of the dust stick to his face. It was too gray to be Kabuki makeup, but it was close. "What? Did you do that?"

"Of course I did."

"And you didn't warn me? Or protect me?"

"Walk it off, Winchester. You've had worse."

"No I haven't. That's the human, not me."

Crowley shrugged. "Potato, potahto."

More rubble shifted, but this time near what used to be the front of the building, but was now a loose pile of timbers and plaster dust. Aericura rose out of it, shedding debris the whole way. She was leaking reddish-gold blood from several different spots, and her red ceremonial robes were dusty and half-black. Her eyes still had traces of the angel energy in them, and she didn't look happy. "You think you can beat me, pretender?"

That choice of insult made him raise an eyebrow. "Pretender?"

"I knew Lucifer. You're not him."

"I should say not. He was a massive asshole, and honestly, he had no fashion sense at all. I mean, I expected something flashier from a guy who also calls himself the morning star, you know? Disappointing all the way around."

She threw power at him, but it was half strength, and made her stumble. It barely mussed Crowley's hair. The poor dear seemed confused. Rubble shifted and fell all around them, covering up the fact that Dean had crawled a bit farther away, out of her view. "What ..?"

"Did you not consider the fact that an angel, especially one of the lower ranks like the dear departed Cecil, is several steps below you? I understand you could hardly let energy like that go to waste, but considering you take on the characteristics of those you consume, well … should have thought that one through." He hit her with a little mind clouding while he straightened out his cuffs.

She fought it off, but with effort, and Crowley let her break out of it simply because he felt bad for her. She had a beautiful plan here, a nice set up. Totally unworkable, but he sort of admired the chutzpah if nothing else. "You dare," she began, but Crowley didn't let her finish.

"You were never going to help Cecil, were you?"

The topic change confused her enough that she almost bobbled the angel blade she pulled out of her sleeve. Was he supposed to be scared of that? "Of course I was. And if he survived and managed to accomplish his goal, having an ally in Heaven would have been helpful."

Ah. So even she was aware it was mostly a pipe dream on his part. She wasn't as stupid as he thought. Misguided, and maybe a little naïve, but only half dumb. "You can't trust angels, darling. Believe me, I know. They're holy than thou treacherous beasts, which is somehow worse than the usual."

Her eyes narrowed, and the angel energy in her irises was beginning to fade away. Once she metabolized the energy, they were fucked once more. What was taking him so long? "Don't call me darling."

"It's not personal. I just thought you might like to hear something nice before it."

"Before what?"

Finally, Dean took his cue. He had come up behind her, and she was so focused on Crowley, she didn't notice him at all. "This," Crowley said, as Dean stabbed her through the back with the First Blade. He went classic, and stabbed her where her heart would be, if she was at all sticking to standard human physiology.

She gasped and looked down at the blade poking through her chest. "I am no one's puppet," Dean snarled, twisting the knife.

"You should have known he has a temper," Crowley said. "The Mark doesn't make a person level headed."

Dean ripped out the knife, and stepped back, as Aericura staggered, placing a hand over the gaping hole in her chest. It was barely stopping any blood. She looked down at it, and did the most extraordinary thing: she laughed.

It wasn't a snicker, but a full on guffaw, which caused her to throw her head back. Dean cast a questioning look at Crowley, who could only shrug. Was she having a nervous breakdown now? If you were ever going to do it, you might as well wedge it in before you die, but the timing still seemed odd.

When she stopped, she shook her head, and was still smiling like a crazy person. "Did you really think that would kill me?"

Crowley shrugged again. "It was worth a shot."

Dean lunged, aiming for the head this time, but she turned and caught his arm before the First Blade could sink home. Before Dean could hit her, she chomped down on his arm like a zombie, ripping out a huge hunk of flesh as he screamed and punched her in the face. She didn't so much let go of him as throw him back into the rubble.

Aericura faced Crowley again, still chewing on Dean's flesh, some of his blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth. "How do you think you'll fare against the Mark of Cain, Crowley?"

Well, this certainly didn't turn out the way he'd expected.


	7. Hellraiser

_**7 – Hellraiser**_

Crowley didn't kid himself. Someone with the First Blade and the Mark of Cain turning on him would be a bad situation indeed. He could very possibly end up as dead as the next demon, angel, or whatever that had crossed its path.

But here was the thing – could you simply absorb the Mark's power? He didn't think so. You were cursed with it, or it was given to you, but there were few circumstances where it could be taken by force.

She started towards him, murder in her eyes, and then stopped. She swayed, looking unsteady on her feet, and very confused. "Problem, love?"

"What … what's going on?"

"Feeling a bit sick, are we? I think you've established yourself as someone who acts, but doesn't think too much. Which can work for a god, but not in these circumstances."

Dean shook his arm, which was still bleeding profusely, and cursed up a storm as he got to his feet. He staggered and almost fell over, but he looked like he was still considering his attack options. Dean hadn't figured it out either.

Aericura hunched over, and made gagging noises. "I can't –"

"He's a vessel," Crowley pointed out, wondering how she lived so long being this spectacularly stupid. "He's just a container for the Mark. Are you aware of the kind of container he is? He's dead. He's a dead human reanimated by the Mark. How does that feel, goddess? To be transformed into a dead human?"

She collapsed to her knees, and was making a noise like a rusty croak. Crowley got a sense she was trying to marshal her forces, but the problem with being a power usurper was you manifested whatever you took. Even if what you took was technically a corpse.

Finally she keeled over, hitting the ground face first.

Dean had raised his toothy knife, but now just looked confused. "Are you kidding me? She absorbed my death?"

Crowley dipped his head. "That kind of power set is a bitch, especially if you're stupid. I'm amazed she lived this long."

Dean stood over her, uncertain. "Will she recover?"

"Don't really know."

"Should I cut her head off, just in case?"

He shrugged. "Knock yourself out."

Despite the bloody chunk still missing from his arm, Dean cut her head off, and then, as if to make sure she was sincerely dead, chopped her head in half as well. He supposed he'd dismember her if he let him, and Crowley was okay with that, but he preferred incinerating her. Gods could recover from a lot of things, but being torched to cinders was difficult for many.

Once Dean looked up from his butchery, he asked, "Is the dimensional whatever the hell gone?"

"It is."

He gazed around at the town. If there were any Leviathan left, they were wisely hiding. "Should we burn this shitty town down?"

Crowley smiled. "Great minds think alike." He snapped his fingers, and all the buildings on the other side of the street burst into flame. It was always satisfying to watch.

As soon as they walked away from the rubble and the dismembered corpse (?) of Aericura, Crowley lit it up as well. He let Dean get some gas from the car and set a building on fire, because why should he have all the fun?

By the time they got back in the car, everything save for the car, and the broken road, was on fire. Made a lovely picture. He was pretty sure Leviathans couldn't burn to death, but he bet it hurt like hell, and he was willing to settle for that. At least most of them were dead or as good as dead.

Dean held out his arm, which was still bleeding from the missing chunk, and asked, "Little help here?"

"You're healing."

"It'll take days, and I bet they'll notice at the next bar."

Crowley rolled his eyes, but touched his arm, healing and restoring it instantly. "Don't get use to this. I'm not a lovesick angel. Speaking of which, decaying grace or not, I'm kind of surprised poor soppy Castiel hasn't found us by now."

"He won't. He's obeying Dean's last wishes."

Crowley looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I haven't heard this. I thought Dean died with Moose."

"He did. But the last thing he actually did was think a prayer at Cas. He and Cas had this thing, where he didn't actually need to talk to him out loud. He could just think it at him and Cas would pick it up. Dean never told Sam, and didn't use it much, because he rightly suspected it was weird to be so mentally entangled with someone."

Crowley shook his head. "So obsessed with his masculinity, wasn't he? Nothing says insecure so much as that."

Dean nodded, as he put the keys in the ignition. "You don't know the half of it. So what his last thought was was actually _'Cas, if you ever loved me at all, take care of Sam, keep him safe.'_ "

This didn't surprise Crowley in the least. Dean and Moose had that weird thing, which he was half-convinced would turn into some icky family love story at some point if they weren't careful. "Was Dean ever aware Sam was his brother and not his son?"

Dean shrugged. "Sam's kinda both to him. Dean raised him more than John. It doesn't set up a healthy dynamic."

"I imagine not. But it was a smart move. At least we don't have to worry about Castiel."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, but you can bet Sammy's still looking for him."

"Oh, I've no doubt. But if he thinks he can find us, he's dumber than I thought." He was the goddamn King of Hell. No one found him unless he wanted to be found. The Deanmon was perhaps a bit more worrisome, as he wasn't always as aware as he should be of who was watching him, and why.

The sun was beginning to set, giving the sky a pleasant rosy glow, where it wasn't being occluded by the thick black smoke of burning buildings, Leviathans, and one astonishingly stupid goddess. It would have made a lovely postcard. _Wish you were here, burning in Hell._

As they drove off, Dean asked, "What about karaoke?"

Crowley sighed heavily. He knew human Dean had been repressed, but this was still incredibly ridiculous.

* * *

The End


End file.
